


Minding Sherlock

by alivingfire



Series: Bookshop [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU -Bookshop, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, M/M, Ms. Hudson ships it, Pre-Slash, Sherlock's train of thought gives my thesaurus a workout, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingfire/pseuds/alivingfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly has a break-in, John wants to help, and Sherlock gets angry. But not jealous, because that would be ridiculous.</p>
<p>Still slighty canon divergent, but not too far off the path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minding Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to be tough and hold out a little longer before posting this, but I got such a good response from part one that I couldn't do that to you guys. So, here it is. We get Sherlock's side of things this time, which wears me out but is pretty fun to write.
> 
> Once again, send all your hugs and British actors to [Ruth](http://http://theteadragon.tumblr.com/) for keeping me from making these silly boys entirely too emotional for their own good. All mistakes are my own, and if you catch one, let me know so I can fix it. 
> 
> And as always, questions, comments, fic ideas, and whatever else your little hearts desire are welcome at my [Tumblr](yourconductoroflight). The ask box is always open. I've got a couple of ideas lined up for when this series is over, but I'd love to hear your prompt ideas.

     Molly had added at least two, no, three new security measures since the last time he’d visited her inane excuse of a coffee house. A large tinkling bell that announced the entrance of every visitor almost hid the red light of a camera fixed over the front door. It pointed straight at the cash register; because of that particularly imprudent choice of angles any intruder that went after the money would most likely get away with it. Molly had also added an alarm system, with a small keypad hidden underneath a new painting to the right of the doorway. The system seemed high quality but no doubt she had chosen a tediously unimaginative passcode. He tried to see if there was any way to check for cell deposits on the keypad without moving from his seat.

     Alas, foiled by a knockoff van Gogh. He sighed, and closed his eyes against the tedium.

     The third security addition was the reason he was even in her shop at all. He was early, just on the off chance there was an impromptu shift change at the surgery, but he knew that military training had led to a strict adherence to a schedule. His flatmate was due in precisely two minutes.

     He smiled when he heard the tell-tale gait that he had trained himself to recognize under any circumstances. The owner of said gait stepped through the doorway, slid off his coat with a slight whisper of wool against wool, and hung it on the coatrack. Two kicks on the welcome mat to remove any mud from the bottom of his boots, a slight cough, and he was off towards the back of the shop.

     Sherlock snapped his eyes opened and smirked. He watched from the corner of his eye as John walked passed him without even a glance, focused as he was on whoever was at the cash register.

     Probably Molly. The man had a soft spot for the quiet, foolish girl.

     Sherlock couldn’t quite make out the low conversation at the counter, but he didn’t particularly need to. Pleasantries, small talk, how do you dos; he rolled his eyes at the thought. Why people insisted on asking questions to which they had no desire to hear the answers, he would never understand. Perhaps that fell into the vast realm of sentiment, that uncharted area that Sherlock hated to acknowledge.

     “… let me know if you need anything else. I just needed a cuppa and some time out of the flat. There’s a dead cat on my kitchen table with its heart missing.” The ridiculously familiar voice was moving steadily closer, so Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and waited for the warm jumper to appear from behind the shelf.

     “The liver is missing as well, John.”

     Sherlock allowed himself a moment of amusement at his flatmate’s slight jump that caused his teacup to rattle on its saucer and a few choice expletives to slip through that easygoing exterior. But in a subtle shift he changed from John Watson, part-time healer of colds and broken ankles at a sad excuse for a healthcare facility, to Captain John Watson, army veteran with a bullet wound dashed across his shoulder and a Sig Sauer tucked into his jeans four out of the seven nights of the week.

     Sherlock didn’t use terms like badass, because the English language was well equipped enough to describe life without the use of profanities.

     But John, he’d have to concede, was very much the definition of the word.

     Once he composed himself, John rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand and finally met Sherlock’s gaze. The warm cerulean irises barely hid his embarrassment, as well as something slightly veiled that Sherlock hadn’t quite named yet, even after extensive study. Affection? That expression didn’t seem to fit with Sherlock’s understanding of the word, but it was the closest he could find.

     “Sherlock. What are you doing here? You said Lestrade called for you, and that was not even half an hour ago.”

     “Solved it already. It was the mistress. Petty jealousy,” Sherlock answered carelessly. “Obvious, due to her ridiculous red velvet boots and her three empty cans of hairspray.”

     “Obvious?” John asked. And really, while an admirable doctor and definitely not as stupid as most other humans, John sometimes noticed even less than Lestrade or Sally. Never less than Anderson, though, which was something Sherlock was quite proud of. Instead of answering, he raised a single eyebrow and waited for John to piece it together.

     He didn’t miss the eye roll the doctor threw his way, but kept waiting. John sighed, but narrowed his eyes at Sherlock after only a moment of contemplation.

     “Red… red shoes. The red hid the blood stains… and the velvet absorbed it?” John ventured, and when Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth twitch, John grinned slightly. “And the hairspray… To cover the scent. That is a particularly strong smell, and it’s not out of place for a girl her age to have several cans of the stuff.”

     John always got more confident by the end of his deductions. Sherlock didn’t ever point this out, but it was one of the many pieces of John Watson he’d collected and stored in a small, woollen-vanilla-warm room of his mind palace.

     “Yes, indeed. As you can see, more than enough to implicate the woman as the murder suspect, and not nearly interesting enough for me to linger.”

     “But why are you here, Sherlock? There’s a cat that needs removing from our kitchen table, if you’re bored.”

     Ah, no, that wouldn’t do. Even in his deepest of dark boredoms Sherlock had never resorted to cleaning to pass the time. Tedious.

     “I’m actually not here to speak to you, John, though it is a happy coincidence that you’re here,” Sherlock answered in his best imitation of carefree cheer. It was a difficult mask to maintain, especially since he knew from the skin tightening slightly around John’s eyes that it wasn’t doing its job. “I’m here to speak to Molly.”

     A sudden squeak proved that Molly was indeed hiding near John’s customary chair under the pretence of cleaning. He could tell from a glance at the dust accumulation on the shelves to his right that this was not a customary practice of hers, and that he was correct in assuming of her eavesdropping. The girl in question stepped out from behind a nearby cabinet, brandishing a rag as if the detective was asking for evidence, but lowered it and blushed at the smirk he knew was creeping onto his face.

     Sherlock used to pride himself on the control he had of his expressions, but as of late it was becoming harder to do. He pinned the blame for that on his expressive flatmate-colleague-friend. When near a person who wore their every emotion proudly, such as John, it was easy to let some of the trained stoicism slip.

     “M-me?” Molly stuttered. Sherlock took in her frightened, wary eyes and the faint flush of her cheeks. Embarrassment. Obvious.

     “Yes, Molly, you.” And he saw John narrow his eyes again, but this time it wasn’t to play Sherlock’s game, it was in warning. Sherlock took that in, as well. _Proceed with caution_ , John seemed to be telling him.

     “What’s this about, Sherlock?” John asked in his most genial tone. Sherlock sent his flatmate-colleague a small smile. It wasn’t a real one, even though it was directed at the one person that he ever really smiled at. He cut the grin short at John’s confused look and turned back to Molly.

     “Just wondering why Molly’s been using you for her private security lately,” Sherlock said. He let Molly shoot a quick, terrified look over his shoulder at John before he added the more important part. “Especially when you’re supposed to be at crimes scenes,” he spun dramatically to look at John, “with _me_.”

     John had to come to his crime scenes. It was what they _did_ , it was their _partnership_. Sherlock thought that John had understood that; he had been so willing to come since that awful cabbie with the bad teeth and ridiculous pills. John craved adventure, he felt stifled by routine and redundancy. Sherlock _was_ his adventure. He _was_ his adrenaline, his danger, his life-spark. Sherlock knew this. John knew this. So why was he spending his time _here_ , with _Molly_ , instead of with him?

     He tried not to let any of his thoughts cross into written-out emotions on his face. But some slipped through the cracks, and John caught them and pieced them together.

     “Molly’s just been a little nervous since the break-in,” John explained. His bedside manner was impeccable, but Sherlock didn’t feel calmed. He felt patronized.

     “She’s added new security. If she would move the camera to a better position and change the alarm code then this place would be perfectly safe. _She_ doesn’t need you here.”

     Damn. He hadn’t meant to let that particular thought out. Molly might not piece together the between-the-lines implications, but John would. In fact, John did. He opened his mouth to reply but Molly beat him to it.

     “Why do I need to move the cameras? Or change the alarm?”

     Sherlock sighed, and pointed to the offending object without looking away from the realizations that were dawning on John’s face.

     “At the angle it’s currently positioned, a person between five and six feet tall would have their face hidden if they stood at the cash register due to the bell covering the middle third of the lens. This, of course, covers nearly all adolescents, just like the ones that broke in earlier this month. Assuming they would force entry when the shop’s lights were out, they would be in deep enough shadows that the night-vision feature wouldn’t be able to catch any distinctive features even if they were too tall or short for the bell to obscure them. If you move it over there,” he swiveled to point to a corner, a perfect vantage point, “you would not only be able to see their faces clearly, but you wouldn’t have to remove the bell, which is actually a somewhat useful security advantage in its own right. Any noise is likely to scare teenagers back out the door, if they think they’ve been caught.”

     “And as far as the alarm goes,” he continued, and turned to walk over to the van Gogh. He pulled it off the wall and inspected the keypad closely. He allowed himself a quick smile at the deduction, which had admittedly been a guess but a pretty good one. “You should remember this one, John. The Woman’s safe, we were there not a month ago.”

     John’s face cleared slightly. “Cell deposits?”

     “Exactly. Six digit code, standard, and as the zero and the three are nearly rubbed off, we’re going to assume that the code is Molly’s birthday, oh-three, twelve, eighty-one.” Sherlock hit the buttons, let a SYSTEM ARMED message flash on the screen for two seconds, and then unarmed it with the passcode again. “Change that to something less guessable and move the camera to where I told you and then maybe you could let John be where he’s _supposed_ to be.”

     He hadn’t meant to put that hard of an edge onto his final words, but maybe that was the jolt Molly needed. She shivered slightly and made some excuse to disappear. He didn’t bother watching her go, instead turning to face his colleague-friend. John’s face was a lovely mix of things: amusement, pity, exasperation.

     “Amazing as always, Sherlock, but you’re going to give Molly a heart attack,” he said. Sherlock allowed the praise to settle behind his ribs and glow, but only for a moment.

     “She shouldn’t have asked you to spend all your time here.”

     “She’s just scared. You can’t blame her.”

     “I do believe I can.”

     John just sighed. He gave Sherlock an appraising look with a half-grin that said he was forgiven, but he should try and do better next time. He beamed back at his doctor in response, unapologetic as ever.

     “So, is there another crime scene we need to go to or did you choose to come and threaten Molly when you had the rest of the day off?” John joked.

     “Nothing new from Lestrade so far.”

     “Well, let’s at least grab some tea before we head back to the flat. I’m knackered; I’d like just a quick sit.”

     Sherlock gestured for John to lead up to the counter to place the order. He also let him lead the duo back to the seats, which John clearly noticed but didn’t comment on. Sherlock had meant to confirm a theory months ago but had pushed it back in his mind and nearly forgotten it until just now.

     John settled into the large red chair and yawned contentedly. He didn’t seem to notice Sherlock’s searching gaze for several moments.

     “What did we say about staring, Sherlock?”

     “You were distracted because I was in your seat.”

     John was clearly puzzled, and wasn’t attempting his own deduction this time – pity, Sherlock liked watching him try – so the detective elaborated.

     “The day we met, you stopped for twelve and a half seconds when you saw me here before you sat down. It was because you sit there, and I was in your seat.”

     John grinned at the recalled memory.

    “Ah, right. I was all set with my paper and my tea and some long-legged thing had taken my armchair. I was quite distraught at not being able to sit in my place, you know,” he teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but chuckled.

     “Some odd form of sentiment?”

     John smiled.

     “I’ll assume that is a yes.”

     Ten minutes passed, and their tea didn’t even have time to cool before Sherlock received a text from the DI that had them dashing out to catch a cab. In the comfortable quiet of the long ride to wherever some person had done something wonderfully confusing and exceptionally not boring, John leaned over and put his hand on Sherlock’s arm.

     “I am sorry that I haven’t been at the flat more these past few weeks,” he said. Sherlock acknowledged the apology with a shrug. But John wouldn’t allow that, and he squeezed tighter until Sherlock met his eyes.

     “No, honestly, Sherlock. I guess I hadn’t realized how much time I’d been spending there. It’s just nice to be somewhere that isn’t the surgery or the flat for a while. Especially when there’s road kill where I’m supposed to be eating.” John smiled one of his for-Sherlock-smiles and let go of his arm. “But I always had my phone out and ready for when you’d call. And I never missed much, just the first few minutes of your deductions and whatever you’d decided to reveal about Anderson that day. You know I’d never pass up the chance for one of your crime scenes.”

     Sherlock smiled a real smile, his maybe-there’s-hope-for-you-yet smile. John was even less of an idiot than he’d thought. He _understood_.

 

 

 

     Fifteen days later, Sherlock was playing his violin. He was facing the large sitting room window and performing to the street, to the people who carried on with their dull little lives without realizing that a genius observed from above. He was taking in small amounts of information, but wasn’t bothering to categorize or theorize – the deductions were unconscious, the bare minimum. He’d learned that he couldn’t turn them off by the age of six, but he was very successful at relegating them to the back of his mind. Sherlock let the observational data rolling off the people below run like a stream inside his head and played some Bach to harmonize.

      _Dog owner. Mother of four. Cheating on his wife. Cheating on his wife and his mistress. Stole that watch. Works at local deli. Just finished a shift at local hospital. Hasn’t eaten in three days. Just divorced her husband._

     Oh. Sherlock reversed the flow of the stream, realizing that he’d seen what he had been looking for but had been so successfully ignoring things that he hadn’t even noticed. John, his lovely doctor-flatmate-friend, had just rounded the corner, bag of takeaway Chinese hanging from his arm. Sherlock watched him reach the front door of 221, and heard the click of the lock resound up the stairs.

     He resumed his Bach, his back to the door. He heard the rattling of the doorknob, and the sound of a plastic bag rattling against the door as John let himself in.

     “Hello Sherlock. I brought some Chinese, are you eating today?” Sherlock allowed himself a smile, a small but real one, before turning and nodding to John without stopping his concert. John turned to set the bag of food on the table, but stopped with a surprised huff that Sherlock could even hear over his violin. The doctor turned and regarded Sherlock with the humorously exasperated look that he saved for when he thought Sherlock was being especially baffling.

     “What’s all this?” he asked, waving his hand in the direction of the table. Sherlock didn’t answer until he finished the song with a satisfying final stroke. John was still waiting, endlessly patient.

     “It’s food, John,” Sherlock finally answered. John’s eyes twitched with the force of the eye roll he fought to keep from appearing.

     “I see that. Is it… edible?”

     It wasn’t a preposterous question, Sherlock conceded. He’d had to scrub the pots and plates three times with an industrial strength chemical soap just to remove the last traces of blood, mould, and other unsavory organisms from the surfaces. He’d had to clamber behind the fridge to forage for a second usable butter knife. He hadn’t even attempted to find clean napkins, instead borrowing some from Ms. Hudson. She’d sent up her best, a barely used set of heavy fabric in a rich coffee color that complemented wonderfully with the deep red in the sparkling glasses, with a knowing wink and a pat to Sherlock’s shoulder.

     The pat, he thought, he was relatively sure understood. She was fond of her boys, as she referred to them, and was often physically affectionate with them. She was a large part of the very small circle of people that Sherlock allowed such demonstrations from. The wink, however, completely mystified him. Not an inside joke, he’d never borrowed any type of cloth from her before. Not any crude innuendo, or at least not one that he understood, and he prided himself on being a somewhat worldly man. More so than Ms. Hudson, anyway. As much as he hated to let an unsolved equation, no matter how small, remain unexplained, he’d left her strange behavior behind to retreat back to the upstairs flat.

     The flat that was currently being carefully scrutinized by one army doctor, whose eyes were slowly widening to comical proportions. Not unlike those of the characters of the ridiculous black and white cartoons the man indulged in after rough cases or calls from Harriet.

     “Sherlock did you… did you _clean_?” he asked. He seemed so shocked that Sherlock worried for a brief moment about his blood pressure and the scare of sudden surprises. When his flatmate-friend didn’t collapse, Sherlock shrugged to answer his inquiry, as the answer was obvious. “What’s all this about?”

     And then, his apparent awe turned to suspicion in the space of a few short seconds. He regarded the almost-tidy room once more before marching over and poking Sherlock on the shoulder, hard.

     “What was that for? I cleaned! And I made dinner!” Sherlock yelped, affronted. If this was how he was to be repaid for good works, he’d never attempt it again. Not that he’d really attempted before, but this was no way to guarantee a repeat performance.

     “What did you do?” John adopted his most military of voices, and something deep in Sherlock made him want to snap his heels together and straighten his posture. The doctor crossed his arms in an angry X over his chest, his face rivaling the blackest of thunderclouds. “Sherlock Kensington Holmes, did you burn another of my jumpers? Or is someone coming to attempt to kill you again? Because if so I’ll need to go grab my gun and I’ll be _very_ cross with you.”

     Unfair of John to pull out the middle name. He’d laughed for ages when he’d first seen it on one of the many formal documents that Sherlock left scattered across their space, and now tried to slip it into conversation as much as possible. It made Sherlock feel like a browbeaten child, holed up in an airing cupboard and clutching his teddy bear to his chest while Mycroft raged about another dead bird in his room. To be fair, Sherlock couldn’t dissect them in _his_ room because all his tools had been taken and hidden in Mycroft’s desk. Sherlock had had to learn to pick locks just to retrieve them, a skill that Mummy said wasn’t appropriate for a five year old.

     Odd. He thought he had deleted those memories. Apparently the emotional attachments were stronger than he had once thought.

     He was losing focus. John was in front of him, brow wrinkled furiously, and Sherlock had done nothing wrong.

     “I did nothing to your jumpers, and no one is en route to kill me, as far as I’m aware,” he answered. “I did swear that I would text you the next time anyone threatened my life.”

     He could see John’s arms loosen slightly, but they still remained stubbornly crossed. The man was infuriating.

     “Then why did you cook dinner? You don’t cook.”

     “It’s measuring ingredients and placing them in an oven for a standard period of time. If anything is a simple science, it’s cooking.”

     “The wine? The cleaning? How do you explain those?”

     “Shiraz goes with well with red meat. We’re having red meat, hence the Shiraz.”

     “You cleaned, Sherlock. You don’t clean.”

     “Ms Hudson may have helped.”

     “Aha!” John exclaimed, triumphant. “We’re getting somewhere. Okay then, genius, how did you get our not-housekeeper to do some housekeeping?”

     “I merely offered an additional sum added to our rent and agreed to some smaller stipulations for Ms Hudson and she was happy to do it. I just had to leave the flat alone for a few hours today. It’s not as big of an ordeal as you’re making it out to be,” Sherlock sniffed.

     “I’ve lived here for quite a while, and you’ve not cleaned nor had anyone else up to clean that entire time. You don’t even let Ms Hudson touch your things. It’s _just_ as big an ordeal as I’m making it out to be.” John’s arms unwound and his hands moved to his hips.

     Sherlock studied his colleague-friend for a long moment. It was one of those looks that often made lesser men look away after a few uncomfortable moments, but John Watson was no one to be trifled with. Sherlock observed that the man was confused, certainly, but he also had a hint of lingering exhaustion around his eyes and mouth.

     “It was meant to be a friendly gesture. If it was unwanted, I will refrain next time. In the meantime, our food is growing steadily colder and I actually did plan on eating tonight.” Sherlock’s voice took on a cool edge, and he knew that would be the push it would take for John to reevaluate his misguided anger. He knew that his flatmate-colleague was hungry; he had heard the rumbling of his stomach as soon as he’d seen the spread on the table. John rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, chuckling once.

     “Sorry. You’re right, sorry. I shouldn’t be trying to turn down free food. It’s been a long day. And, you have that look on your face like you should apologize, but you’re going to try and get away with not doing it by just being nicer for a few hours until I forget.” Sherlock smirked, and gestured to the table. John led the way, pulling out a chair and dumping himself heavily onto it. He massaged his temples once more, and then looked up to fully inspect the food. “This looks _fantastic_ , Sherlock. Absolutely marvelous.”

     And though he wasn’t complimenting anything Sherlock had done through extreme intelligence or near-impossible attention to detail, merely his ability to assemble spices and raw ingredients into a suitable meal, he felt a blush across his face and a smile he didn’t notice in time to stop spreading.

     “You seemed to enjoy the steak you had at Angelo’s last time we were there, so I procured his recipe.” Through no small effort, either. Angelo had dragged several ill-made promises out of Sherlock, most of which he regretted up until the groan that escaped from John’s mouth at the first bite. He felt another flush rise to his cheeks at the sound.

     “Sherlock this is _heaven_. Seriously, man, is there anything you can’t do?”

     “Nothing I’ve found so far, but I’ll keep looking for something to stump me,” Sherlock said. John grinned back and cut off another piece of his steak.

     “This is perfect, honestly. I had a right awful day and this, just, this wipes it all out.” Sherlock acknowledged his comment with a nod and a smile, already seeing the troubles of his doctor’s day rolling off him in waves. The six patients with flu, including the one that sneezed in his eye. The old woman with a crush on him that came in for every minor cough. The Underground repairs that had caused a half-hour delay. The ache in his shoulder from over-stimulation during the last case.

     Sherlock opened his mouth to reel these facts off, to hear John say “Amazing!” and to see his face light up with admiration, but John held up his glass to stop him.

     “And before I forget your earlier comment, don’t you ever tamp down any burgeoning urge to clean. Ever.” Sherlock chuckled and raised his own wine in a mock toast.

     Nearly an hour passed in good conversation and laughter. Sherlock finally got to rattle off his observations about John’s patients and John nearly choked on his wine in his haste to praise. John filled him in on the ones he’d missed, the mundane ones, and the things he couldn’t possibly deduce, such as his little conversations with the nurses and Sarah throughout the day. Sherlock regaled him with the tale of the rescue of the second butter knife, which had John giggling but regarding the silverware warily. John even coaxed out the details of hiring Ms Hudson to tidy up, which included promises of no guns fired unnecessarily inside the flat, no deducing anything unpleasant about her or her love life in public, and no more leaving body and/or animal parts out of the fridge long enough to start to smell, no matter what experiments may be in progress.

     “Are these restrictions forever?” John asked incredulously.

     “Three months,” Sherlock grimaced. John chuckled but had the decency to look abashed about it. “She already threw away the cat’s liver that I was working on, and she ruined the mould experiment I had growing behind the sink.”

     “The nerve of some people,” John said seriously, shaking his head.

     They sat sipping the wine long after the last bits of food disappeared, swapping stories and jokes. Eventually, Sherlock suggested that they move to the sitting room.

     All the websites he had researched in preparation for this day had encouraged surprises. The dinner was the first, the wine was the second, and the cleaning was the third. These led to the final, which Sherlock was anticipating with an excited ball in the pit of his stomach that he was sure he’d never experienced before. He took a seat in his customary armchair and watched as John, wobbling slightly from the excessive wine, followed and collapsed into his as well.

     There was a moment where Sherlock could see the thought cross John’s mind. He could see that his doctor-flatmate-friend felt that something was off, just that slight bit, and watched as the investigation began. John placed his wine glass on a nearby table and hesitantly turned to regard his chair. Except –

     “Sherlock, this isn’t my seat.”

     Sherlock didn’t answer, but regarded John closely over his fingertips.

     “What happened to my seat? Is this – Oh my God. It is.” John looked up and met his gaze with unparalleled amazement. “You didn’t.”

     “I most certainly did.”

     “How did you-“

     “Molly was most agreeable, once she heard my plan. It was a simple swap.”

     John stood and spun, staring at the chair. Sherlock watched him grin and run his hand over his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. He turned to send that grin at Sherlock after a few more seconds.

     Behind him was the chair, the infamous stolen red chair from Molly’s. Sherlock had recruited several of his homeless network – if they were going to always be lurking around, they might as well be useful – and had the chairs switched while John was at work. After that, it was a simple matter to turn off the overhead light and have the flat only lit by a fire in the grate so that John wouldn’t notice an unusual colour. John was so preoccupied with the clean rug and the Shiraz that he hadn’t even realized.

     Sherlock watched as he sank back into the seat, gazing at him in utter disbelief. He sniggered in reply, and also at the complete and total bafflement on the most expressive face in London.

     “Sherlock, I don’t understand. I’m so grateful, honestly, that orange thing was awful, but I don’t understand. Why’d you go to all this trouble? Did I miss something?”

     Now or never, he decided. The question had been settled in the back of his mind for far too long, and this seemed to be his best opportunity.

     “John. I need you to clarify something for me.”

     “Anything,” came the weak response. Sherlock observed him for a silent moment, concerned once more about a health issue, but it seemed that his colleague-friend was still just in shock.

     “I don’t know where to put you.”

     “Put me? Am I… am I going somewhere?”

     “No, absolutely not. I suppose what I mean is, I don’t know how to classify you.”

     That didn’t seem to clear the confusion at all. Sherlock sighed and tried to find the best route to take.

     “I consider Lestrade a colleague. Molly, Mike Stamford, Angelo; all acquaintances. Mycroft has his own little circle in Hell reserved for the people who continuously bother me, and Sally and Anderson are just steps away from it. Ms. Hudson is the closest thing I have to a mother figure.” Sherlock glanced away from the glass in his hands, which was the audience of his speech at the moment, and up at John. The doctor looked dumbfounded, mouth agape and brow wrinkled. “But _you_. Where do you go? You obviously are more important than an acquaintance, at this point. We technically work together, but we aren’t really colleagues. You are in no way, shape, or form a father figure and I wouldn’t insult you by considering you a brother. You are my doctor, but this is not a normal doctor-patient relationship. Flatmate doesn’t really seem to cover all the necessary-“

     “Sherlock.” John had a hand up, stopping the flow of words. Sherlock felt his jaw snap shut, and he anxiously – not that he’d admit it, but it was there – waited for John’s response. He felt he was walking the proverbial edge of the knife. On one side, an awkward misunderstanding and another conversation about being married to his work; on the other, an overestimation and an insistence that they were colleagues, nothing more. Neither of these seemed right to Sherlock, which was why he had finally given in and asked the man himself.

     “It is a rather odd thing, isn’t it,” John asked, but it was so clearly rhetorical that Sherlock didn’t bother with a reply. He took a sip from his wine and tilted his head, regarding Sherlock as if seeing him for the first time.

     “So, you don’t like the terms colleagues, or acquaintances, or flatmates. I’ll not have you calling me doctor, that’s just weird. Seems there’s only one logical step forward, then.”

     “And what’s that?”

     “ _Friends_ , Sherlock.”

     Sherlock hesitated, but spoke slowly with a small prompt from John.

     “You corrected Sebastian when I suggested that at the bank,” he pointed out, and he saw John’s shoulders slump slightly.

     “I did, didn’t I?” he murmured. “Screwed that right up.”

     Sherlock watched John’s face in puzzled silence. The word friend bounced off the interior edges of his skull.

     Friend.

     His friend, John Watson.

     His friend, John Watson, who finally pulled his eyes off his own wine and up to meet Sherlock’s.

     “Alright, then. Let’s sort this out. And you’re going to listen to me, because I’m not big on emotion talks and I don’t want to repeat myself.” Sherlock nodded in agreement.

     “Sherlock, we…” John ran a hand roughly through his hair. “Jesus, I hate talking feelings. We definitely fit into the sphere of friends. I told that idiot Sebastian that we were colleagues because that’s how you referred to me at your crime scene that first night. I assumed that if people thought you were just letting a friend follow you around closed murder investigations, they wouldn’t be too happy, but a colleague would be more accepted.”

     Sound logic. It seemed as though he’d thought this out, and had been waiting for the moment to unleash his ideas. Sherlock was impressed with his recall, but only for a short moment, because then he blurted out his next sentence like he could no longer hold it in.

     “Also you don’t seem to like the word ‘friend’ very much, anyway.”

     “What do you mean?” Sherlock asked. John sighed and mussed his hair again, clearly regretting not sticking to only one line of reasoning.

     “Well… You called Sally Donovan your friend that first night. Y’know, at the house with the pink lady.” He shrugged. “I figured that if that was how you treated your friends, I’d be happy to stay colleagues.”

     “So, you just want to be my colleague.”

     “No! I know better now. At least, I think I do. I thought, I dunno, maybe that ‘friends’ had a bad connotation for you, so you only used it sarcastically.”

     Sherlock was stunned. Blind-sided. He’d deleted most interactions from that night that didn’t involve evidence or his conversations with John. Dimly, he recalled a distinct conversation involving an ‘old friend, Sally’ and the state of her knees.

     How had John – his friend John – remembered all this? He had never shown any particular prowess for recall and Sherlock was sure he didn’t have an eidetic memory. If so, he might be able to run to a shop without forgetting half his list before he got there. Could eidetic memories appear over time? He’d researched the phenomenon once he’d discovered he possessed it, but that was over two decades ago and he’d deleted the pieces that didn’t apply to him-

     But John was steamrolling ahead. For someone who hated discussing emotions – even more than Sherlock, it would seem, which in itself was rather unbelievable – John was prolonging this conversation beyond what Sherlock had ever expected. He said his next bit in a rush, as though it was less painful to say it in one breath rather than several.

     “And I know you noticed the look Sebastian threw you when you said friends. I realize you’re not big on hidden innuendos, but he clearly took it to mean something much more…” and his face burned crimson, “romantic than friends. I was just trying to set any mixed signals straight.”

     John reached the end of his soliloquy with a single nod and an uncomfortable sigh. He moved to take a sip of his wine, but then stopped, the glass barely touching his lips, and surveyed Sherlock with a shrewd look.

     “Did you plan this dinner to ask me that?” he questioned.

     “Of course not.”

     “So, you just wanted to cook a nice dinner and pop open a really fantastic wine just for giggles?”

     “Not for giggles, no.”

     “So there is a reason.”

     “There is always a reason, John. I merely wondered if you could figure it out on your own.”

     “Ah.” That sparked a grin on the doctor’s face. He seemed to enjoy the challenge of a game. Sherlock catalogued that tidbit away in the warm-vanilla-John- _friend_ room as well, then reached for his own wine, smirking.

     John slid down in his chair, legs pointed straight out in front of him. He ruffled his hair until it stuck up in crazy points, and then clasped his hands in front of him as if in prayer. Closing his eyes, he sighed deeply and began speaking in a most ridiculous deep voice.

     “ _Jawn_. Fetch me my phone. Go be _useful_. Close your mouth, you’re gaping again. Don’t swear, it shows a lack of _intelligence_. Shush. Stop being _boring_.”

     How dare he.

     “I do _not_ sound like-“

     John’s lips trembled with the effort of keeping a straight face. Eyes remaining resolutely shut, he cut off a chuckle that escaped and sunk even lower in his chair.

     “Why would _I_ , the only genius to ever grace the presence of the lives around me, choose to do something as enigmatic as trade the furniture between my home and my flatmate’s favorite coffee shop? It’s not Christmas or John’s birthday, neither of which I even celebrate because holidays in general are just _ridiculous_ excuses to spend money to prove that a person can buy another’s affection. It’s a Wednesday, which are particularly _tedious_ days anyway. I believe that anniversaries are useless additions to calendars that are merely days that have meaningless influence placed on them, despite said flatmate’s protests on the matter.”

     It was probably Sherlock’s twitch that gave it away. He’d been too caught up in John’s nearly insulting imitation that he’d let his guard down; the unconscious kick of his foot had resulted from the nearing of John to the matter at hand.

     John, while nearly oblivious to most obvious clues and hints in the world around him, chose this moment to become perceptive to his surroundings, and his eyes snapped open.

     “Aha!” he exclaimed, pointing at Sherlock in a very accusing manner, despite the broad grin on his face. “So I’m close.” He began pacing, but only made it to two turns in front of the fireplace before he spun dramatically and pointed at Sherlock again. “Anniversary!”

     Sherlock tried with his last remaining ounce of strength to keep the look of disdain affixed onto his face. “Stop pointing, John, it’s rude.”

     John grinned, but lowered his hand. He began to chuckle, then seemed unable to stop. He collapsed into his new chair in a fit of giggles. Suddenly, Sherlock found himself incapable to resist joining in. Soon, with the help of the generous amounts of fermented grapes in their systems, both fully responsible and serious men were rolling in their seats with laughter. John was gasping, and Sherlock could feel that his normally bone-pale face was flushed.

     It took a few minutes, but they finally pulled themselves together enough to somewhat clamber back into normal sitting positions.

     “So, I was right?” John questioned. Sherlock shrugged and ran his hands through his hair, snagging on a couple of curls.

     “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “It took almost no effort, and the chair we had here was terrible for your shoulder and back.”

     “Sherlock, stop sounding like you’re on the route to apologizing, I think it’s great. I’m just still really confused. What is today the anniversary of? I’m assuming something Jack the Ripper related since he’s your favorite. So what, did he kill someone on this day however many years ago?”

     Sherlock was confused. How could John possibly think he’d go to such lengths to celebrate anyone that wasn’t absolutely essential to his being? As much as he admired the work of the Ripper, Sherlock just wasn’t the type to cook for just any man. John looked even more bewildered than Sherlock when he began shaking his head.

     “No, John. _Think_.”

     John shrugged, and Sherlock sighed.

     “One year ago today, March 9, 2011, you were being dragged on a tour of Bart’s by Mike Stamford and we were introduced. We solved our first case together with 30 hours of meeting. People tend to enjoy celebrating the annual recurrence of important events, and I assumed this would be considered a poignant enough moment for recognition.”

     John’s expression could have been the dictionary definition of flabbergasted. He sat back hard with a loud exhale, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

     “Sherlock…”

     The detective held up a hand to stop whatever his friend was about to say.

     “I didn’t do this to be sentimental, John. I’m merely expressing my gratitude at the happening that led to this flatshare.”

     John quirked a smirk in his direction. “You get more formal when you’re uncomfortable.”

     Sherlock sniffed and made to stand; he was still slightly wobbly but he at least didn’t fall. He made to move toward his room, but stopped and laid a hesitant hand on John’s good shoulder.

     “Thank you, John. For everything. I hope your evening was pleasant.”

     He made it to his bedroom door without turning to look back at his friend, but he couldn’t resist peeking when he turned to shut the door behind him. His eyes locked across the distance with those of the doctor, and felt a warmth flooding through his body.

     A different high than he was accustomed to, but potent nonetheless.

     Was this friendship? It seemed as those this particular case did not fit the definition, no matter what John said; it seemed to Sherlock that it was all sharp angles and corners that tried to squeeze into where it didn’t belong.

     A puzzling problem, and one Sherlock intended to unravel. He decided all this within two seconds, and John was still watching him. He nodded once, and closed the door with a soft click.

     Puzzling, indeed.

 

 

 

     It was christened Molly’s chair by John on that very first evening in its new residence. And there it would remain, ensconced in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street for nearly two decades, before it would finally be sold to a good new owner at the insistence of a tall detective with a lion’s mane of wild curly ebony hair just beginning to turn grey.

     Before the new owner – recent university graduate and newlywed, named Michael but preferred Mike, trying to impress his new wife by being economically savvy and buying secondhand – had it taken out of the flat, the shorter of the two residents laid his hand on the faded fabric and closed his eyes. The detective didn’t stop his violin playing, which had begun before Michael had arrived, but did shift it to something more melancholy. The two occupants shared a meaningful look over the smooth wood perched on the detective’s shoulders, and, with a sigh, the doctor removed his hand and smiled at Michael.

     “It’s all yours, mate. Be good to her.”

     Michael didn’t know quite what to say, so he nodded and headed for the door, following the two burly men maneuvering the chair down the stairs. As he was closing the door behind him, he heard a deep voice quietly say what he thought was, “Goodbye, Molly’s chair.”

     The new owner couldn’t be sure that was what he heard, didn’t even know who Molly was, but the name stuck. And so Molly’s chair lived on, until Michael’s kids broke one of its legs years later playing cops and robbers. Michael had sighed when he’d seen it, and inspected the leg to see if the damage was fixable. Instead, he found a small latch and a hidden compartment. Inside was a packet of cigarettes, a faded and peeling white box that looked decades old.

     Michael smiled and thought of the previous owners for the first time since he’d acquired the chair. Their smooth, easy relationship; communicating through gestures and glances in a way he could only hope to do with his own wife.

     Michael chuckled and hoped that, wherever they were, they were just as happy together as they were the day they’d given him Molly’s chair.

     (For the record, they were.)


End file.
